The Frozen Fortress of Lapland
The Frozen Fortress of Lapland
The Arctic wind howled through the ancient Saami stronghold, its icy claws reaching for Petunia Evans as she stood before the shaman’s fire. The air crackled with unseen energy as the elder raised his hands, whispering words in an old, forgotten tongue. The flames surged skyward, shifting from blue to a deep, eerie violet. Petunia inhaled sharply.
A mist coiled around her, thick and shimmering, and the world fell away. She found herself in a dreamscape trial, a frostbitten wasteland where the sky pulsed with unnatural light. From the abyss, a frost spirit emerged—its form ever-changing, a humanoid silhouette composed of swirling snow and jagged ice. Its voice echoed through the void.
“You seek the wisdom of the last Chronicle, but do you comprehend the past that binds you?”
The spirit lifted a hand, and the ice cracked beneath her feet, revealing a vision frozen in time. She saw the original Petunia soul as a child, desperate and angry, watching Lily leave for Hogwarts. But beneath the jealousy, another layer revealed itself—Petunia had once reached for magic, felt its pull, but something had interfered. A shadow loomed in the vision: an unknown force had severed her connection to the mystical world long before Dumbledore’s letter.
The vision twisted—another face appeared. Voldemort. But not as the world knew him now; a younger, almost human Tom Riddle. He held a book of rituals, its pages aged and cracked. A single passage glowed ominously: Blood must be bound; a Seer’s sight undone.
Petunia gasped. Voldemort had orchestrated something decades ago that alter Petunia's fate, but it wasn't clear if it was her fate or the original soul's fate. He had feared what she might become—a Seer unlike any other, one who could write visions of infinite dimensions. He had disrupted her power. But now, she could reclaim it.
The frost spirit’s eyes gleamed like shards of ice. “You are not merely the sister of a witch. You are a Chronicle-Keeper, bound to the knowledge Voldemort sought to destroy. Use this truth, and the bindings will break.”
The world shattered like glass, and she found herself back in the Arctic stronghold, clutching the final Chronicle. The shaman nodded gravely. “Now comes the second trial—the future.”
Before she could respond, the ground trembled. Shadows slithered from the corners of the fortress, coalescing into a monstrous figure. It had no face, only a swirling void where eyes should have been, and it loomed over her like living night. The Keeper of Forgotten Knowledge had come to claim the Chronicle.
Petunia gritted her teeth. “No. I will not be erased.”
The Chronicle pulsed in her hands, its pages flipping wildly. A prophecy burned into her mind:
The world shall break from its cycle of war and deception when the forgotten writes anew. A Seer, unseen and unheard, will scribe the future upon the bones of the past. She will not predict—she will create.
It struck her like lightning. The future wasn’t fixed. She could rewrite it. Her visions, her words, could shape reality itself.
The shadow entity lunged, but she was faster. Dipping her fingers into the Chronicle’s ink, she wrote upon the air itself. “The Keeper is bound no longer. It shall return to its origin.”
A deafening scream filled the fortress as the entity twisted and shrank, pulled into the Chronicle’s pages. The book slammed shut, and silence reigned.
Breathless, Petunia stared at the ink-stained fingers that tingled with magic. She wasn’t just a Seer. She was a storyteller of fate.
The shaman approached with a solemn smile. “You have learned well. The world of wizards shall change, for you will write it into a future Voldemort could never control.”
Petunia Evans stepped out into the frozen night, the Chronicle warm against her chest. She had found her magic—not in spells, but in the power of rewriting reality itself. And the war against Voldemort had just shifted in her favor.
For the first time in her life, she was not a footnote in history. She was its author.